Scar Tissue (A Preview)
by Pocket-Anon
Summary: 4 years after losing his hand and his first love in the line of duty, Killian Jones, now an exchange officer with the British navy, is starting to wonder whether his emotional scars are doomed to be as permanent as his physical ones. A chance meeting with Emma Swan, a young Navy surgeon, however, grants him the chance to work toward healing and happiness, if only he'll let her in.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I thought I'd let you guys preview a couple of my most popular fics here on FFN! You should know that I will not be posting more than a handful of chapters of this fic here, as I am not willing to violate FFN's guidelines regarding MA-rated work, but if you like it and aren't offended by adult content, you can read this fic in it's entirety on AO3_ _or on my Tumblr._ Scar Tissue _,_ _in total, is 20 chapters (104k) of angst and fluff and, yes, smut (heaviest on the fluff). It's my baby - the first multichapter fic I ever wrote, and by far my most popular fic to-date. I hope you enjoy._

 **•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•**

The cheerful chimes from her physician phone are anything but to Emma as she cracks opens a bleary eye and grapples blindly at her bedside table, hand flailing until it lands on the offending device. She flicks her thumb across the screen without looking and presses the phone haphazardly to her ear. "Captain Swan," she grinds out, clearing her throat.

"Emma, it's Elsa." The tone of her intern's voice is strained and gets Emma's attention immediately. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I've got a patient with respiratory distress in 2102. Can you come?"

Emma sits up in bed as she processes the information, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes . "Yeah. Do you need the acute care team?"

"O2 sat is 92% on 2 liters, respiratory rate's 26, heart rate 110." Elsa rattles off the vital signs rapidly. "He looks okay for now."

"'Kay." Emma rolls herself out of bed, stumbling over to the light switch in the dark. She winces as she flicks it on, the harsh fluorescent glare forcing her to close her eyes momentarily. "Turn him up to 4 liters and draw a blood gas. I'll be there in a sec." She hangs up and glances at her phone, sighing at what she sees. It's 0432. The phone gets shoved into the back pocket of her scrub pants, and she takes a moment for a deep breath before heading out into the hallway, once more unto the breach.

She finds Elsa in the aforementioned patient's room hunched at his bedside, frowning in concentration as she draws blood out of the man's upturned right wrist. A nurse stands next to a portable vitals monitor, hastily jotting down the latest set of readings on a scrap of paper.

"How we doing?" Emma asks them as she enters.

"O2's up to 96% on 4 liters," the nurse reports. "Blood pressure's stable, 148 over 92."

"Lieutenant, this is Captain Swan," Elsa tells the patient. "Captain, this is Lieutenant Navarro."

"Ma'am." The lieutenant is a 45 year-old man with an olive complexion who smiles weakly. His left leg is set in a cast after a recent surgery and propped up on a pillow, and his graying bed head is rumpled to match his faded blue hospital gown.

Emma acknowledges him with a friendly nod, practiced eyes giving him the once over for signs of obvious distress and thankfully finding none. "'Morning, Lieutenant. How do you feel?"

"A little short of breath, Ma'am."

"When did it start?"

"Woke me up around 0400."

She watches as Elsa caps the blood sample and drops it into a waiting plastic baggie filled with ice to be sent to the lab. "Any chest pain?"

"Just when I breathe." He points toward his left armpit and hisses as he inhales deeply to demonstrate. "Right there. Like a poker."

Elsa catches Emma's eye. "Chest CT?"

"Definitely." She gives the younger physician a small approving grin and gestures for a tech who's standing in the doorway with an EKG machine to come in and get set up. "Lieutenant, we're going to check your heart rhythms and then arrange for a CT scan of your chest to see if you have a blood clot in your lung."

The man's brown eyes widen at her words, but he simply swallows and nods as the tech begins unbuttoning his gown in order to affix the EKG leads to his chest.

Their suspicions prove correct when the radiologist calls Elsa at 0540. The lieutenant does indeed have a new pulmonary embolism in his left lung, and Elsa texts her the news as Emma perches at a nursing station computer, a giant cup of coffee at her fingertips, glancing over lab results and vital signs for all of the patients on their orthopedic surgery service. She texts back the go-ahead to start blood thinners for the clot, and returns to her review of patient charts. Thankfully their patient list is not as long as it has been in recent weeks, and, barring any emergencies, the optimist in her estimates she can be done with morning rounds and have her progress notes completed by 10. After a couple years of doing this, she knows it's tempting fate to plan on being out of the hospital at any specific time, but she's been in this place on-call for almost 26 hours now, and she needs to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

When she and Elsa meet back up for rounds, she smiles. "Nice call on that CT."

Elsa absently brushes her icy blonde braid forward over her shoulder. "Thanks, and thanks for your help." Her smile is rueful. "Sorry to call you out of bed. I know you were in on that emergency surgery until 1."

Emma shrugs and shakes her head dismissively. " You're supposed to call me for stuff like that. You did great." She pulls out her folded patient list and raps it impatiently against her other hand, craning her head for signs of their boss. "I hope Mills gets here soon. I just want to get done and go home."

As much as she wishes for rounds with their faculty surgeon to be blessedly efficient, they are not. Major Mills, typically a brusque, no-nonsense taskmaster who's both bark and a fair amount of bite, is uncharacteristically chatty and sociable with their patients today. It's nice to see the Major showing her softer side, but it slows their workflow. Emma suspects the phenomenon has to do with the fact that the Major's boyfriend has just returned to D.C. from his latest tour of duty abroad; the woman is practically glowing as they follow her around the ward. Emma can feel her desire to go home growing exponentially with every tick of the minute hand on her watch, but she understands her place at the beck and call of her superior, so she hides her exhaustion and emotionally buckles down.

It's almost 1130 when she signs her last progress note and logs out of the electronic medical record system. "Huzzah," she says flatly under her breath, her voice cracking as she raises her arms skyward in a stretch, the euphoric sensation of sinew pulling and joints popping causing her to groan. Elsa's already signed out their patient list to the residents covering the day shift, and now all Emma needs is a stop in the cafeteria for more coffee to help keep her eyes open on the drive home. She feels almost sore with fatigue and incredibly grubby, and she wants nothing more at this moment than to clean off yesterday's make-up, wash her hair, and fall into her own bed for a few more hours of sleep.

Traffic in the cafeteria at Walter Reed Medical Center is fairly light for a Saturday morning. Standing signs advertise the upcoming Christmas hours and holiday menu items, and ornaments hang from the ceiling on ropes of silver tinsel. She drags herself straight toward the coffee machines as though their little red lights are homing beacons calling to her soul and plunks the largest paper cup available beneath the dispenser of the nearest machine. Before medical school, she preferred hot chocolate to coffee, but over the last few years she's converted out of sheer necessity, and her finger jabs the button for espresso, even though she knows what she's going to get isn't anything like the real thing. The machine begins to hum promisingly, but instead of coffee, plain hot water sputters into the cup.

Emma grimaces, her nose wrinkling. "Ugh. Really?" She's sorely tempted to let her head fall forward on the uncooperative machine in exhaustion and defeat. She's so close, so damn close to going home. She just needs enough caffeine so her sleep-deprived brain can operate her car with some semblance of safety. _Come on, Universe_ , she pleads. _Just give me this_.

"Not what you ordered, love?"

The male voice with a British accent coming from the officer at the next machine over makes her look up - look up and stop breathing. _Holy hell_. He's tall and gorgeous, with a mop of artfully mussed inky brown hair, piercing steel blue eyes, and a few days'-worth of stubble lining his mouth and jaw line. Being in the military, Emma immediately surveys his dress (once she can tear her gaze off his dangerously appealing face). He wears a white dress shirt with a neat black tie and black dress pants. There is an unfamiliar rank insignia on his shoulders, and the strap of a time-worn brown leather messenger bag is slung over his subtly-sculpted chest. Her physician's eye picks up on the stump that peeks out of his left shirt sleeve, well-healed scars where the hand used to be.

She'll give herself points later for only staring at this beautiful person with her mouth open like a fish for two full seconds (maybe it was three) before she gives herself a mental shake and her brain revs back to life like a computer in safe mode. "Um, no. Unless that water is infused with concentrated caffeine, very much no."

He chuckles and steps back, gesturing toward his machine with his right hand. "Perhaps you should try this one."

"Oh. Yeah." Four years of college, four years of medical school, and two years of residency under her belt, and her verbal skills are reduced to this by a pretty face, she thinks woefully. _But it_ is _a very pretty face_. She's fairly sure she's having palpitations. _God, get a grip, Swan_. She tosses her cup of not-coffee into the trash. "After you."

The man gestures again. "Please. Ladies first. I'm sure you've had a long night."

She suddenly considers how she must look in her blue scrubs, stained sneakers, partially-zipped red puffer coat, and slept-in ponytail, and she feels more self-conscious than she ever has in her life. "A little bit," she admits weakly, summoning the courage to look back up into his dancing eyes. "It was a 30-hour shift." Her knees are so wobbly she wonders if her ligaments have vanished, she manages to move in front of his machine without falling over (win!) and tries again to get her coffee. This time, the imitation espresso she's hoping for actually starts pouring into the cup. "Oh, thank God," she exhales, her head falling back dramatically.

He laughs and shakes his head in awe. "How often do they make you do that?"

Emma shifts the tote bag that's hanging on her shoulder. "Call shifts? This month it's every 4th night. I'm counting down the days until January."

"I would imagine. You're a doctor, then?"

She confirms with a nod, allowing herself a proud little smile. She's been able to call herself "Doctor" for over 2 years, but the thought still gives her a little thrill from time to time, especially when she thinks about how far she's come to be here. The machine stops filling her cup with the espresso precariously close to the rim, and she tears her eyes off him and tries to focus on snapping a plastic lid on it without scalding herself. "I'm in orthopedics."

His dark eyebrows rise in a manner that tells her he is suitably impressed. When she steps back from the machine, cradling her precious beverage and ready to be on her way, he clears his throat, scratching behind his right ear in a way that's kind of adorable. "You know, when I was in hospital with this," he says, raising his stump a fraction, "I remember the surgeons being there before dawn and well past dark." He starts the machine on a cup of French roast, turning back to her with a soft expression. "I guess it didn't really occur to me that sometimes you're there all night, too."

Handsome As Hell is being sincere (she has a pretty accurate feel for these things). Despite the fact that this is a place of food preparation, there is a disappointing lack of shiny metal surfaces nearby in which she can covertly check her reflection to see how badly her day-old eyeliner has run all over the place and whether her hair has migrated into an 80′s-style side-pony, but he's gazing at her as though she doesn't look like a major disaster. "Comes with the territory," she manages with a small shrug, trying not to color under his attention. "We all pay our dues during residency."

"Well, you deserve a lot of credit, uh… Captain, is it?" The look of uncertainty on his features as he tries to remember the rank of military physicians-in-training is endearing, and now she blushes fully, really not comprehending how it is _this_ man is still talking to _her_.

"Yes, technically." She summons her courage and sticks out her hand, praying her palms aren't clammy. "Emma. Emma Swan. Navy."

His return grip is warm and solid, and the sensation of her palm in contact with his sends tingles up her arm and down to the base of her spine, like some strange reflex in slow motion. "Captain Swan," he says, grinning slowly from ear-to-ear. "I like the sound of that." He executes a small bow at the waist. "Killian Jones, at your service, Ma'am."

Killian. _Unusual, but it totally works for him_ , she thinks. Although, she's pretty sure his name could be Leroy and her heart would still be racing. She's sad when he finally releases her hand in order to retrieve his coffee. Emma takes a tentative step toward the cashier to gauge whether he's going to come with her. He does. Her finger traces circles in the air as she points vaguely at his rank insignias. "I'm afraid I don't recognize…"

"British Royal Navy," he supplies. "Technically, Rear Admiral."  
Now it's _her_ eyebrows that go to her hairline, though she's not intimidated so much as intrigued. He seems young for two stars. He's either an outstanding officer or he's not as young as he looks. "Rear Admiral Jones," she says deferentially, "Sir."

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head at her. "Killian will do."

She smiles slyly. "Okay, Killian." It's her turn at the cashier, but he sets his coffee on the check-out counter at her elbow and is holding a credit card out to the cafeteria worker before she has a chance to reach for her wallet. Emma opens her mouth in protest. "You don't have to…"

"Of course not, Swan," he says, "It's my pleasure. I owe you surgeons a lot. This is the least I can do."

The female cashier looks expectantly at Emma, the bored look on her face making it clear that she doesn't have time for crazy women who have to think twice about letting a gorgeous man buy them coffee.

Emma glances at him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you going to pull rank on me?"

He blinks, as though he hadn't considered it. "Is that really what it would take?"

She finds she likes his answer. "No." She gives the cashier permission to take Killian's card with a tilt of her head. "Thanks."

They continue to walk in step together as they exit the cafeteria and move toward the hospital lobby, and while Emma is still exhausted, spending a few minutes more in this place doesn't seem like an awful proposition anymore. She sips her drink, humming softly with ecstasy as the hot liquid descends toward her core and she imagines that she can feel the caffeine flooding her bloodstream. "So you're an exchange officer," she observes, cup still hovering at her lips. What's your assignment?"

"I teach at the Academy," he replies, holding his coffee cup to his body with his left arm while he tugs the strap of his bag straight.

She takes another long sip, brow wrinkling. "Are you here visiting someone then?"

"Um, a lot of someones actually." He pulls back the flap of his messenger bag to reveal stacks of navy blue greeting card envelopes, neatly rubber-banded together. "A group of students prepared cards for the patients for the holidays. I volunteered to deliver them. It gives me an excuse to visit with the new amputees. I don't get many opportunities to do it with health privacy laws, but I keep hoping it'll help one or two people who've lost a limb to chat with a bloke who's been there." His gives her a sad little smile.

She can't be sure whether it's the espresso or him, but her chest feels warm as she stares at him, lips slightly parted in awe. Okay, so it's totally him. "That's… really sweet."

A muffled chorus of Barenaked Ladies' "Who Needs Sleep?" suddenly disrupts the air between them, and Emma silently curses as she fumbles her personal phone out of her coat pocket and silences the call with the barest glance at the caller ID. "Sorry."

Killian appears openly amused by her ringtone, then shakes his head sheepishly. "No, it's my fault; I shouldn't be keeping you. You need to rest." He holds out his hand again. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Swan."

The tingles return as she gives him a quick goodbye shake and reluctantly pulls away. "You too. Thank you again for the caffeine."

He gives a gentlemanly bow of his head, flashing her one last smile before backing up and moving off toward the elevators.

Emma watches him retreat and sighs, deciding the jumble of emotions rising up in her is just a little too much for her tired brain to process right now. _Fine, Universe_ , she thinks wryly, as she heads out to her car, _I guess we can call it even_.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

It's late afternoon when Killian settles himself into his SUV and deposits his bag on the passenger's seat next to him with a heavy sigh, tilting his head all the way back on the headrest so his eyes are studying the gray fabric-covered roof above him. These visits to the hospital, while infrequent, are always draining, forcing him to unearth horrific memories of the IED that took his hand and so much more. He started coming because his psychiatrist thought it would be therapeutic for him to talk with other amputees in a role-model capacity. He keeps coming back because of the grateful looks he gets from the patients and their family members when he takes the time to show them, if by nothing other than his presence, that a new normal is not the end of all things, that life and career are possible in the aftermath of such darkness. Killian snorts – he has the career, he supposes, but the life part is questionable.

He brings his chin back down to his chest and rubs the back of his neck as his mind drifts away from the darker thoughts to the stunning blonde he met earlier in the cafeteria. Captain Emma Swan. He can still see her brilliant smile. He'd have to be an idiot not to have been impressed by her – the lovely young surgeon with dry wit and huge mossy green eyes that a man could get lost in. Her sleep-deprived state did nothing to hide her graceful cheekbones or her dimpled cheeks or the golden tendrils that flowed over her shoulder as she moved or the absence of a ring on her finger. Killian makes a fist and thumps his thigh with it. He wishes he could find a way to run into her again. That part is obvious to him. Whether it's a good idea is another matter entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

Killian returns to his office after his latest class and checks his cell phone for messages. There is one from the receptionist at his psychiatrist's office reminding him that he's due for his quarterly appointment. He obediently dials back.

"D.C. Psychiatric Associates." She picks up on the third ring.

"Hi Tink, it's Killian." Phone pressed to his ear, he wanders over to his office window and looks out over the snow-covered field two stories below that, come spring, will be overrun with students engaging in various training exercises. The afternoon sky is gray, clouds diffusing the sunlight evenly over the city.

"Oh hello!" Dr. Hopper's receptionist, Christina – Tink, to her friends – sounds cheerful on the other end. "How are you doing?"

His mouth quirks up at her ever-spritely demeanor. "Well enough, love. You?"

"Oh fine, same as ever. Are you calling to schedule?"

"Yeah."

He has Tink make him a January appointment in his preferred Tuesday afternoon slot, and they exchange brief pleasantries and wish each other happy holidays before he hangs up and moves to enter the appointment into his phone. The date saved, he pauses, staring at the calendar beneath his thumb. _Every fourth night_. Swan had mentioned working 30-hour shifts every fourth night for the rest of the month. He finds himself counting out the days before he can stop himself. _1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4…_ She's working overnight again this coming Saturday.

With a frown, he abruptly turns his phone screen off, tossing it lightly on the desk. He shouldn't. He shouldn't be looking for an excuse to run into her again. Even if she were willing, he isn't ready to pursue a relationship. Four years after his devastating loss, he's still broken, still having the occasional nightmare and phantom pain, and she deserves better – a man who is whole and can give as much as he takes. That isn't Killian. He rumbles in frustration, hauls a rubber-tipped dart out of a desk drawer, and whips it angrily across the room at a dart board that hangs opposite. It sinks into the bullseye (after four years of angry, frustrated throws, it usually does), and he shoves the drawer shut with more force than necessary, the metallic bang echoing between his four walls. He is so tired of being this way, of having no guaranteed date of recovery on his horizon. Killian leans forward, elbows on the desk, and runs his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. Emma isn't the only one who's exhausted.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Emma snaps on a pair of pale blue nitrile gloves and gently hoists their patient's leg off the bed at the thigh so Elsa can unwind the layers of ACE wraps and white fluffy gauze that encase the stump from his below-the-knee amputation.

"How's the pain today?" Elsa asks, leaning over his leg. Ensign Stephens is a gangly twenty-something year-old with strikingly red hair and freckles who seems a little enamored with her. The tiny amused smirk on Elsa's face that only Emma can see from this angle is the sole indication that her intern notices the interested looks he's giving her.

"A little better, Ma'am." He fails to suppress a wince as she peels back the last layer of the dressing that lies against his skin.

"Sorry," Elsa murmurs soothingly, her long lashes shielding her eyes from view as she looks down at her work. She tosses the used bandages out and examines the wound, gingerly prodding at the stitches holding the edges of the incision together.

Emma watches, keeping the leg steady. There is no unexpected redness or swelling or other sign of infection. "Looks pretty good," she declares, satisfied. As Elsa begins to re-wrap the stump with clean supplies, Emma lets her eyes wander around the room. The Ensign has some paperback books and an iPad strewn on his bedside table and an open box of candy canes and a couple of Christmas cards in a pile next to the window. The navy blue envelope on top of the card pile catches her eye. "Did you have any visitors yesterday?" she asks him conversationally.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah." He takes his eyes off Elsa for a moment and follows Emma's gaze. "There was someone from the Naval Academy delivering Christmas cards. Jones. Cool guy. He hung out a while."

Emma smiles, trying to appear only politely interested. "Sounds nice. It's good to have some company."

The Ensign nods, though his attention has drifted back to Elsa, who's finished her task and is now stripping the gloves off her slender hands. "Don't suppose you'd want to come keep me company later, would you, Captain?"

This time Elsa openly smiles and narrows her eyes in rebuke. "As you were, Ensign."

Stephens sits back in the bed, shrugging good-naturedly, zero regret in the boyish grin on his face. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

Once they've excused themselves and are in the hallway and out of earshot, Elsa finally allows herself a giggle. "It's nice to see him in a good mood. He seemed pretty down yesterday. Guess he's feeling better."

Emma nods, wondering whether the Ensign's improved outlook today has as much if not more to do with his visit from a certain rear admiral than it does with physical healing.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Killian stops by The Stacks on the way home from work. It's an aged but well-kept drinking establishment in Mitchellville, 10 minutes from his apartment, that's run by his friend, Belle, a petite lady whose two interests are slinging booze and reading. He arrives at the tail end of happy hour, settling himself on his usual seat at the end of the counter. She doesn't keep him waiting long, waving at him when he sets foot in the door and heading in his direction a couple minutes later, drying her hands on a towel.

"Killian!"

"'Evening, Belle." He reaches into his bag, setting a hardcover book on the polished oak bar top which bears many dings and dents, a testimony to its heavy use and history. "I wanted to bring this back to you."

The pretty brunette snags it, stowing it away behind the counter. "What did you think?" she asks, watching him out of the corner of her eye, brow arched.

"It was quite good." His verdict renders a look of triumph on her face. "But then, your recommendations usually are."

"About time someone noticed," she sniffs primly, winking as she reaches toward a bottle of her best dark rum reflexively. "Can I get you your usual, or do you have to run?"

He considers the level of activity around him. He hates crowded bars, but the place is relatively quiet, it being a Wednesday night and all. He shifts his weight restlessly on the stool. _To hell with it_. "Make it a double."

Belle pauses, a knowing look crossing over her face. "I see. What happened?" She sets an empty tumbler on the counter in front of him and splashes in three ounces.

Pointedly avoiding eye contact, he studies the amber liquid apathetically before lifting the rim of the glass to his lips. "What makes you think anything happened?" It's a rhetorical question. They both know that Belle can read him as well as she can any book. He sets his jaw and tips the glass back, relishing the burn of the alcohol as it slides down his throat.

His friend plants a hand on her hip. "Killian Jones, don't make me to beat it out of you with my thesaurus."

"Oh come now, love." He swipes a drop of rum from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and tsks. "You wear shoes like that, and a reference bookis your weapon of choice?" He shoots a glance at the impractical 4-inch spike heels she somehow manages to teeter around in all day. "That's just lack of creative thinking."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. I will consider stabbing you in the neck with my shoe rather than clubbing you with Roget's. Happy?"

He points a finger at her half-heartedly. "Better."

She opens her mouth to retort, but her attention is drawn away by another customer, and she gives Killian a chiding look before she stalks off. They both know he's not off the hook. This has become their pattern – she picks up on a disruption in his life, and he doesn't run away just because she's on to him. They both know she will coax something out of him eventually, usually greasing the wheels with a few libations, and he'll let her. Maybe it's because his brother Liam used to spend summers bartending before he joined the navy, and this reminds Killian of him; maybe it's because Belle shares his knowledge of what it's like to tragically lose love; or maybe it's her combination of patient nurturing and sisterly honesty; but Killian has learned that her presence can be a comfort when he wants to sort out his thoughts. So he remains in his seat bowed over his empty tumbler, fingertip tracing slow circles around the rim, rather than throwing down some bills and disappearing.

Belle returns 15 minutes later, wandering back down his way with a half dozen lemons and limes in a large wooden bowl. Setting a small cutting board and a knife on a stainless steel workbench behind the bar, she sets to work prepping citrus slices for cocktails. She's silent at first, but then she speaks, her voice low and just loud enough for him to hear over the din. "Alright then?"

A bitter smile ghosts briefly at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still fixed downward. "Aye." He can feel her eyes flickering over him, studying his expression with deep sympathy.

"I'm sorry." She doesn't have to know what's bothering him to show him she understands how miserable he is.

Killian nods. Just as he always does in these situations, he debates opening up, how much he should say, afraid to reveal himself. Finally, he swallows. "I met someone."

Belle looks up, appearing pleasantly surprised. "Oh?"

He nods again.

"Someone nice?"

Emma's face dances through his memory. "Brilliant," he answers somberly.

His friend runs her blade across the cutting board to corral lemon slices, scooping them up and dropping them into a waiting plastic container. "I'm still waiting for the bad news."

"She deserves better than the likes of me."

Belle frowns and cocks her head critically. "Uh huh. She said that, did she?" she asks dryly.

Killian gives her a sullen side-eye.

"Of course she didn't. This is your assessment." She continues to slice. "Does she even know you like her?" She allows him a while to answer, his silence telling. "Ah. Safer to play your cards close to the vest," she observes at last. Sighing, Belle chews on her lip. Reading words is easy, but _producing_ the right words, the words he needs when he's like this, can be a lot less so. "We're all a little broken in some way, Killian. It's scary that people may run away once they see what we are, but…" she lays her palms on the table on either side of her, leaning forward, "Maybe it's unfair to hold someone at arm's length and never give them option to stay."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

A nurse grabs Emma and Elsa as they pass by the nursing station Thursday, just as they're preparing to sign out and take off for the evening. "Sorry. Captain? Lieutenant Scarlet in Bed 5 says he's still having really bad pain, and he hasn't eaten anything all day."

The girls share a look. Scarlet is a new transfer in from the U.S. military hospital in Landstuhl who arrived yesterday. The victim of a roadside bomb in Iraq 2 weeks ago, he lost a leg below the knee, and his recovery in Germany became complicated by a very aggressive skin infection in his stump. They'd had to take him back to the OR first thing that morning to open the incisions back up, clean out the site, and assess whether the infection had reached the bone, and while the bone had been spared, the infection was extensive enough that they'd made the decision to leave the wound open until it clears; they'll close it up when the tissue is healthier and better able to heal. It's been obvious since his arrival that the unfortunate lieutenant is devastated by the loss of his leg, increasingly frustrated by the setbacks in his recovery, and not handling any of this well.

"I'll go," Elsa says.

Emma gives her a small grin. Elsa is capable, hard-working, and gutsy when the chips are down, and Emma admires her willingness to try to handle this situation on her own, but an angry guy like Scarlet can be tough for any physician to deal with, let alone a first-year like her. "We'll go together," she says. "But you can take the lead."

When they enter the patient's room, the shades are drawn and the TV and the lights are off. The quiet whir of the IV and pain medicine pumps and the hum of the heating system are predominant sounds.

"Lieutenant?" Elsa calls softly as she slips in first. When he doesn't answer, she clears her throat and tries again a little louder. "Lieutenant Scarlet?" She switches on a small overhead bulb that throws a pale, isolated light over just the doorway of the room.

"What?" The voice is a growl.

"It's Arendelle and Swan," she tells him as they approach the bed. "Your surgeons. Your nurse said you were having pain."

"You're fucking right I am," he answers. "This morphine isn't doing shit for me."

Emma can see Elsa bristle at his language, the tension evident in her shoulders. They're hardly strangers to swearing, but most of the patients know better than to run their mouths off at the medical staff. To her credit, Elsa doesn't shy away. "How bad is your pain?" she asks. "Scale of 1 to 10?"

He looks up at her, sunken dull brown eyes incredulous and red-rimmed. "Fucking 25, what do you think?" he says, sneering, the pitch and volume of his voice rising. "You people are Goddamn idiots." He gestures disgustedly toward his bandaged stump. "You know what's under there. My leg is fucking split open like Frankenstein's monster. What the hell kind of number do you think I'm going to say?"

Now Elsa looks rattled. She drops her eyes away from his face, and Emma can hear her quiet shudder as she tries to collect herself. "I'm very sorry, Lieutenant. I'll go increase your pain medication." Her voice is edged with distress and restrained tears, and Emma steps aside as Elsa spins around and makes haste out of the room.

Emma is grim as she watches her intern leave, taking a deep breath before turning back toward their patient. He's young and pale, brown hair in a typical Army buzz cut, with heavy eyebrows, a straight nose, and smallish ears that stick out. Dark circles underline his eyes, and he cradles a plastic basin on his lap. He looks miserable. She approaches his bed slowly, fixing a calm, unyielding stare on his face.

He watches her come indignantly, though the hard look she's giving him causes his demeanor to shift just slightly toward intimidated and sulky. "What else do you want?" he asks, petulant.

Emma frowns and licks her lips. "Lieutenant, I get that all of this has been a nightmare for you beyond what a lot of us can imagine," she says in a soft voice, "You're in a lot of pain, you've been in the hospital a long time, you're probably worried your leg isn't going to heal well, you're not sleeping, and I'm going to guess by the way you're hugging that bucket that the morphine is making you nauseated." She sighs. "So we're going to do everything we can to take care of you, but when all this is over, I strongly suggest you apologize to Captain Arendelle for your behavior just now." She raises her eyebrows in challenge. "Am I clear?"

Scarlet still looks pissed, but she can see the muscles in his neck move as he swallows. She doesn't wait for his reply as she turns on her foot and goes to see about Elsa.

Emma finds her at a computer at the nurses' station, slumped back in a chair, the computer untouched. Her intern's hands are steepled and pressed against the bridge of her nose, eyes closed.

"Hey."

Elsa quickly sits up and looks at her, big blue eyes a little wet. "Hey. Sorry. I was just about to adjust the morphine order for him."

"Yeah. You okay?" Emma settles into the seat next to her.

Elsa manages a smile that doesn't reach her eyes and logs herself into the computer system. "I'm fine."

"You can't take it personally, you know that." Emma gives her shoulder a squeeze. "What happened in there is not about you."

Elsa sighs and gives her a nod. "I know."

Emma has learned from experience that knowing and believing are not always the same thing, but making the transition can take time. Content to leave it be, she rises. "Give him 4 mg of morphine now, and change his pain pump settings to 1 mg every 15 minutes as needed. Oh, and schedule his nausea meds for every six hours. The narcotics are making him queasy. I'll take care of signing out to the night team."

Elsa flashes her a grateful smile as she clicks away with her mouse. "Aye aye, Captain," she says wearily.

As Emma heads to hand off their patient list, she catches a glimpse of Ensign Stephens, his red hair visible even far down the hall, rolling himself around in a wheelchair on the other end of the ward. It's good to see him out of his room and getting around, she thinks. An idea occurs to her, and she presses her lips together in thought as she hurries off.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

A knock comes on Killian's office door over his Friday lunch hour.

"Yeah." He continues to look over the paper he's grading as the department secretary, Bill Smee, cracks his door partway open, his head and one arm leaning in. "Sir, you've got a phone call. Do you want me to put it through?"

"Who is it?" He continues to read, the tip of his red pen sweeping back and forth half an inch above the words as he scans them.

"It's a woman. Emma Swan?"

The pen pauses in midair as Killian freezes. He looks up. The woman he's been thinking about all week – torturing himself about, really – has taken the time to track him down. His mouth suddenly feels dry.

He must stare too long, because Smee gives him a concerned look. "Sir?"

He coughs weakly. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, put her through."

His pen hits the desk, and he leans back in his chair as the portly man disappears, pulling the door shut behind him. Killian runs a hand through his hair anxiously. He's been vacillating for the last few days about whether to try to cross paths with her again. This morning on his drive to work, he'd convinced his reflection in the rear-view mirror (for the fourth time) that the whole thing was a silly notion and resigned himself to the idea that emotionally he cannot afford to have her be more than a one-time acquaintance. Apparently his opinion means squat to the powers that be though, because here he is, waiting for his phone to ring with her on the other end.

As though the thought triggers it to happen, the desk phone blares to life.

He clears his throat and falters as he reaches for it, nervous as a schoolboy talking to a girl for the first time. _For Heaven's sake, you big sod_ , he thinks, panicking as it rings for the third time and snatching up the handset. "Captain Swan." He's stunned by how normal his voice sounds.

She doesn't miss a beat. "Rear Admiral." The universe isn't playing tricks; it is, in fact, her voice in his ear, as pleasant as he remembers.

"Killian," he gently corrects her.

"Emma," she returns.

He chuckles. "Emma," he agrees, the act of saying her name aloud giving him a happy rush. Lord, he's in trouble when it comes to this woman. "What a nice surprise. To what do I owe the honor?"

"I, um, I hope you don't mind me calling you like this," she says. It's reassuring that she sounds as nervous as he feels. "I know I already owe you for the coffee, but I wanted to ask another favor."

He can hear the distant sounds of traffic in the background. Killian glances at his desk phone and suddenly scrambles for a sticky note and the pen when he realizes that if she's outdoors, the digits on his display are probably her cell number. "Oh?" He scribbles it down and underlines it twice.

"Is there a chance you might have a reason to visit patients here again soon?"

Killian raises an eyebrow, his pulse starting to race as he wonders what she's up to. "Perhaps."

"One of the guys you visited on Saturday, Stephens, enjoyed talking to you, and he seems to be in a better headspace since then," she says. "Look, I know you're not like a fairy godmother or something, but I've got a new patient on my service who's having a really rough time, and I thought it might be good for him to meet you too."

 _Wow._ He finds himself touched, gratified, and humbled by her rambling little speech, a wide smile breaking across his face. "You flatter me, Emma."

Her laugh is an amazing sound. "Well, it's the truth, but a little buttering up might be in order if you say yes." Her voice turns serious. "Full disclosure, Killian. This poor guy's angry and hurting and lashing out. He's uncooperative and yelling and swearing at the staff. He almost made my intern cry yesterday." She sighs heavily. There's a pause. "You know what?" she starts again, now sounding embarrassed, "You shouldn't feel obligated. He might not even talk to you. I just… had to ask. I don't know how else to help him."

The sadness in her voice tugs at him, not just because he completely understands the situation, but because her desire to help a patient, even a spiteful one, cope with his injury says a lot about her. Emma Swan is something special. He feels a pang in his chest. He's in it now; there's no way he can bring himself to say no to her. "You want to try, Swan. That's what matters," he says gently, imagining those green eyes looking discouraged and wishing he could crook a finger under her chin. "I would be happy to try to speak to your patient."

"Really?" She sounds hopeful now, a hint of wonder in her tone, and he'll never doubt helping her is the right thing to do.

"Of course." He taps the end of his pen thoughtfully on the sticky pad. "I just need to find an excuse to run into him."

"Oh. Right. Huh." She's silent for a half a moment. "I can't tell you his name or anything about his condition, so you either need another reason to stop in on every patient on the floor, or we have to arrange for you to run into each other outside his room."

"Exactly." Killian begins to doodle on the note just above her phone number. The outlines of a swan's neck, head, and body take shape.

Emma hums. "I don't suppose your students are planning on sending any more greeting cards? You don't have, like, a knitting club that wants to make socks for everyone or something?"

He laughs as he suddenly envisions the Naval Academy football team sitting in a circle knitting socks and jumpers and tea cozies. "That sounds delightful," he says, regaining his composure, "But no, I don't think we have that."

"Well what if…" she trails off, "What if you came back to visit some of the other patients you met last weekend again? Then you'd have a reason to be there, and maybe we can get him out of his room for a bit so you can try to start a conversation with him."

"Sounds promising," Killian agrees, adding folded wings and a beak to his drawing.

"Ensign Stephens would enjoy seeing you again," she reminds him.

He smiles, sketching a tail and feathers. He remembers the young man she speaks of. "He's a good lad."

"Yes, he is," she says, sounding amused. "Except that now that his mood is better, he's proving himself to be an awfully big flirt."

Killian's brow furrows a touch. "Why Swan," he says, careful to sound teasing, "Does the Ensign have his sights on you?"

"Oh, not me," she replies airily, "My intern, Elsa."

"Ah." The lines on his forehead fade, and he tries to ignore the fact that the tiny niggling uneasiness in the back of his mind that's just been alleviated may have been jealousy. He instead focuses on the fact that the Ensign seems to find another woman more appealing than Emma Swan. _Apparently the lad's injuries also extend to his head_ , he thinks. "Well, it sounds like a fine plan, Swan. When shall I come by?"

"Is tomorrow too soon?"

 _Saturday. Her call day_. He finishes his doodle and studies the precious sticky note reverently like a pirate with a treasure map. "I think I can manage. How will you get the lad out of his room?"

"I don't know. I'll come up with something," she says, cheerfully undeterred. "What time can you be there?"


	3. Chapter 3

If there's one thing he would not have immediately taken Emma Swan for, it's conniving, but it turns out that there's a bit of that in her too.

When he arrives on the surgery ward toting a box of Krispy Kremes, he walks past a janitor with a large floor buffer who's methodically setting up "wet floor" signs with arrows pointing to one half of the long hallway. Killian slows his pace and looks around, eyes peeled for anyone he knows.

"Donuts. I like your style."

He whirls around to see Emma coming toward him. Unlike during their first meeting last weekend, she looks fresher and better-rested today. She wears scrubs and the same sneakers, but today her face is framed on each side with a medium-sized braid which starts at her crown and wraps down around the back to entwine with its counterpart in an intricate, slightly messy knot holding together a bun at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks are rosy, lips pink, and her eyes gleam conspiratorially. Frankly, she's glorious.

He forces himself to drop his gaze to the green and white box. "Well, I thought it might help draw our quarry out in case my shining personality wasn't enough."

She smirks. "I love a man with a back-up plan." She suddenly blushes, her face and lovely throat suddenly awash in a deeper shade of salmon, and ducks her head childishly. "Uh… Wait here."

He watches as she all-but bolts away, hurrying down toward the janitor he passed on the way in. He observes them greet each other fondly, and Emma's attitude to the wiry, balding man is a mixture of playful entreaty and open appreciation as she says a few words to him and the man nods enthusiastically. He picks up the hanging loops of the floor buffer's cord and begins unwinding them like a fisherman with a net while Emma trots back over to Killian, a satisfied grin on her face. "That's it. We're a go."

He tilts his head, peering at her curiously. "What are you up to, Swan?"

"Oh, Marco's going to wax some of the floors today," she explains serenely. "The floor wax he uses is kind of pungent, so normally he only does patient rooms when they're empty, but he's going to make an exception for me and start in on our guy's room now while he's downstairs getting an MRI." She shakes her head shamelessly. "Pity he won't quite be done by the time the patient gets back."

Killian feels a quiet laugh bubble up from his chest as he nods appreciatively at her little scheme. "Quite devious, Swan."

She allows herself an indulgent self-satisfied smirk, her cheeks glowing in a way that's mesmerizing, but she's only allowed to preen for a moment as a ding emanates from her rear pants pocket. Emma pulls out two phones – the personal one he recognizes from before and another that he assumes is for work – and unlocks the work phone, pouting a little. "Ugh, sorry. I've got to go review some bone scans with Elsa and then see a consult in the ER." She sighs and stows the phones away.

He waves away the apology. "Duty calls. I understand. Go. I've got this."

She takes a step toward the hallway behind him, pausing to touch his left forearm. "No matter how it goes, I can't thank you enough for this," she says quietly, dipping her head toward his ear. "Really. I owe you one."

Her touch and proximity and the lowness of her voice are giving him shivers, but it's the sincerity in her voice that overwhelms him. Killian swallows, his heart in his throat. "Think nothing of it, Swan," he says, trying not to croak, "Happy to help." He wants to pull her into a hug out of pure appreciation for making him feel more useful than he has in a long time, but instead he remains frozen on the spot as she flashes him one more grateful smile and hurries off.

Ensign Stephens is in his room, playing Candy Crush on his iPad and looking bored, the TV playing "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" at half-volume in the background. The young man lights up when Killian knocks on the open door.

"Hey! Jones!"

"Hi." Killian smiles. "I was back in the neighborhood and though you lads might enjoy a distraction."

The Ensign sets the tablet aside, eyes zeroing in on the pastry box excitedly. "Dude, are those Krispy Kremes?"

He chuckles. "They are, in fact. Care to try to earn one?"

The Ensign's face falls a little. "Earn one?"

Killian snorts reproachfully. "You're in the military, lad. Doesn't matter if you're in hospital. Privileges are earned."

Stephens rolls his eyes but straightens his back as best he can in the bed. "Fine. What do I have to do, Sir?"

"You mean for three-and-a-half inches of soft, melt-in-your-mouth, sugary goodness?" He fixes the patient with a grin, one eyebrow curved upward devilishly, shifts the box over to his left arm, and pulls a deck of cards out of the pocket of his long black wool coat. "You play poker?"

It doesn't take long for Killian to recruit a couple other patients he met last week – Rothschild, a diminutive middle-aged army guy who's lost an arm, and Davis, a leanly muscled black marine who's lost a foot – to play too. They set themselves up in a visitor waiting area across from the elevators. Seated in a combination of waiting room chairs and wheelchairs, they pull up around an end table that they relocate from the corner, the lamp that sat on top left behind on the floor. Davis, who, along with Stephens, still has both hands, volunteers to deal.

Not long after they've started the first hand, the distant sound of a raised voice is heard back in the ward hallway. Killian manages to withhold his smirk as he recognizes Emma's plan in action. He glances up from his cards, tipping his chin in the direction of the commotion. "What's that?"

Stephens gives a disinterested hum. "Sounds like the guy two doors down from me. He's always pissed about something."

"Raise." Killian frowns, tossing a couple of the sweetener packets they're using as chips into the center of the table. "Anyone know anything about him?"

Head shakes and shrugs abound. When Rothschild, the only one still in the current hand with him, decides to fold, Killian sweeps the small smattering of blue paper packets into a lopsided little pile in front of his seat and stands up. "Well perhaps we should do something about that. Play a hand without me, mates. I'll be back." He points at his winnings. "And no sticky fingers, eh?"

He studies the man Emma told him about as he walks up the hall, keeping his pace relaxed, hand on his belt. The lad is young, with brown hair and a rectangular head, and he looks severely put-out as he sits in a wheelchair in the hallway, his right leg foreshortened and wrapped in snug bandages, his IV pole next to him. The door to his hospital room is closed, and the harsh chemical smell of floor wax that emanates from behind it is unpleasant, even out in the hall.

"Forced out of your room?" Killian asks as he approaches.

The man glances at him resentfully. "They tell me I need to rest and get well, and they make my room smell like a fucking chemical spill so I don't have any choice but to sit out in the hall like a jackass. It's so typical."

Killian nods slowly. "Yeah, I can smell that stuff from here. Sorry, mate." He purposely gestures with his stump toward the waiting area, waving it a couple feet in front of the soldier's nose. "If you want something to do while you're waiting, we've got 5-card draw going on down there. You're welcome to come." He sticks his hand out. "Jones. Navy."

The man glances at his hand and ignores it, staring forward moodily. His only movement is the tightening of his jaw and the squeeze of his thumb on the trigger button of his pain pump.

Killian runs his hand over the back of his head with a shrug and angles to go. "Well, if you change your mind, we've got donuts. Kripsy Kremes, not that cakey, dry nonsense. Winner gets them, though I'm not sure they'll actually last that long. The lads act like they haven't seen real food in ages." Unsure what else he can say, he starts to walk away. The afternoon's not over, and damned if he won't try to engage this guy again once he figures out how, but a sense of defeat at the idea that he may have just let Emma down begins fall over him.

"They haven't. Food's like cardboard here."

Killian pauses and turns back toward him, keeping his expression as bland as he can. "I've done my fair share of time in hospital. In bloody _England_ ," he says dryly. "Enough mushy peas to turn a bloke green. Believe me, I remember." He raises an eyebrow, reading the glimmer of indecision he now sees in the soldier's face. It takes him a split second to recognize it for what it is. _Jackpot_. "I'll get your IV if you want to roll."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Emma almost plows into Elsa as she follows her off the elevator, the younger woman halting in her tracks at the sight that greets them. "Whoa, what-?" She steps around and follows Elsa's gaze.

Killian is sitting around a table engaged in what looks like a makeshift poker game with Stephens, Rothschild, Davis, and… Scarlet. Scarlet is there. He's sitting in his wheelchair to Killian's left, expression gruff, but he has cards in his hand, and his posture is less tense than usual. The box of donuts sits open on a chair within Killian's reach, and a few are missing.

"What on earth…?" Elsa starts, but Emma hurriedly shushes her and grabs her arm, pulling her along.

"Whatever it is, it's good. Let's not ruin it," she urges quietly. She glances over her shoulder as they pass, catching Killian's eye and throwing him a breathless smile before hustling Elsa away.

"Am I hallucinating?" Elsa asks as they make it to the nurses' station and Emma finally allows her to turn around and gawk at the men incredulously. "Because it looks like Scarlet is out of his room. And _socializing_."

"Amazing, right?" One of the nurses, Ruby, joins them, leaning forward on the counter and craning her head in the same direction, her long chocolate locks falling over one shoulder and brushing the Formica. "None of us can believe it either."

Elsa frowns, squinting. "Who's that with them? In the black shirt?"

Ruby hums appreciatively. "We're calling him Dreamy McDreamboat." Her gray-green eyes are laughing. "He was here last weekend handing out Christmas cards from the Naval Academy, and I guess he decided to come back. I think they said his name is James."

"Jones." The correction is out of Emma's mouth before she realizes what she's doing. She winces almost comically as the two women fix her with laser-like stares. _Damn it_. She was always horrible at keeping secrets, and her relationship with Killian – if you could call three brief conversations a relationship – was kind of something she'd intended to keep to herself.

Elsa leans toward her with a slowly widening smile. "Emma?"

Emma sighs with resignation and meets her gaze, looking a tad guilty. "His name is Killian Jones. I met him here last weekend." Elsa's interested look begins to grow mischievous, and Emma holds her palms up helplessly, her voice inching undesirably higher. "He seems really good at mentoring amputees, so I might have invited him back to try to talk to Scarlet."

Elsa's face softens abruptly as she darts a glance back at the guys. "Wait. He's here because of you?"

"What? No." Emma frowns. "He's here for _them_."

"But you called him," Ruby interjects. "You lit the Bat Signal."

"Oh for God's sake, he's not _Batman_ ," Emma protests weakly, "He's just a good role model for the amputees." Her eyes are pleading as she looks back and forth between the two women. "Can we keep it hush-hush? For Scarlet. I don't want it to get back to him that this whole intervention was staged." Relief rushes through her as Elsa and Ruby share a look but then nod reluctantly.

"Fine," Elsa says, giving her a spontaneous hug. "But I can't believe you thought to do this for him. You're amazing."

"Yes," Ruby says with amusement, still watching the card game over their shoulders, "And also incredibly lucky, judging by the way Dreamy McDreamboat is looking at you." She sighs melodramatically and pouts. "The other nurses are going to be so disappointed." Her words are offset by the wolfish grin that follows.

Emma rolls her eyes. "Whatever. You see a romance everywhere you look. It's not like that."

"So I like a good ship." The lithe brunette shrugs unrepentantly as she straightens and heads off to answer a patient call light that has begun to ding repetitively. "Doesn't mean I'm always wrong," she calls in a sing-song voice.

Emma looks back to see Elsa also watching her with a serene, faraway little smile. "Don't start."

Elsa blinks innocuously, redirecting her eyes toward the ceiling in a way that makes her appear rather angelic. "I didn't say anything."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Killian prides himself on being an excellent poker player, but while he'd started out willing to throw a few hands to Lieutenant Scarlet to help cheer the lad up, it turns out that, even hopped up on narcotic pain medication, the soldier doesn't need the extra help. Scarlet gives him a definite run for his money, his flat countenance largely unreadable, though he does appear grimly satisfied every time he rakes in his winnings. He doesn't say much beyond what he has to to play, refusing to contribute more than a few comments as Killian and the others shoot the breeze about their previous tours of duty, their hometowns, and the latest sports chatter.

Killian is grateful for the unspoken understanding that seems to pass between himself and the other men not to ask Scarlet about his injuries or press him about anything else; indeed, he's grateful for their willingness to let him include the notoriously angry man in their game at all. They seem to understand and appreciate what Killian is trying to do for him, particularly since they all can relate to one another as military men who've seen combat and paid a great price. He desperately hopes that Scarlet will also recognize this connection and begin to understand that he is not as alone as he thinks. Killian specifically avoids any discussion of injury, phantom pains, nightmares, panic attacks, or coping skills. This isn't formal therapy, just a taste of normalcy. The lads ultimately decide to just split the donuts evenly and play for bragging rights instead, and Killian smiles inwardly as he watches Scarlet consume his first one, the soldier's reaction to the sugary confection the closest thing to happiness anyone has probably seen on his face in weeks.

When Emma and another woman with white blonde hair step off the elevator and see them, Killian does his best to only dart Emma the most fleeting of glances, not wanting to betray any hint of their little plot. He can't help himself, though, from giving her one little exultant smile when Scarlet is not looking. The delighted gleam in her eye as she meets his gaze makes his chest swell.

"Admiring the view, Jones?"

He snaps his attention back to Stephens who is eyeing him knowingly.

"Nice, huh?"

Killian scratches behind his ear. "It seems you lads have lucked out when it comes to pretty doctors."

Stephens laughs. "Don't we know it. A couple of the nurses too. Makes the hospital stay a little more bearable at least."

Killian tosses two of his cards into the slough pile as Davis gathers them up and redistributes. "No doubt." He allows himself another glance at Emma and the woman he presumes is her intern, Elsa, as they chat with a nurse, the three pretty heads bowed together as though in cahoots. "Do you have a favorite?"

Stephens cheeks turn slightly ruddy as he says, "Um, Arendelle, the shorter one, is really sweet. She's quiet, almost… regal, you know?"

Davis snorts. "What he means is that he's got it bad for her." He blithely ignores the indignant look the Ensign shoots him as he examines his cards, fingering his pile of sweetener packets thoughtfully.

Killian chuckles. He catches a fleeting look of guilt that crosses Scarlet's face as they discuss Elsa and recalls Emma telling him that Scarlet had nearly made her intern cry. Perhaps the Lieutenant feels some remorse? "No shame in that, mate," he assures the Ensign. "It'd be sad if a beautiful, intelligent lass couldn't catch anyone's attention." He surveys the women again casually. "What about the other one?"

"Swan?" Stephens folds his hand. "She's nice too. She's… I don't know… scrappier?"

"Streetsmart," Rothschild suggests, with Stephens nodding agreement. "She seems a little tougher, more experienced, sharp as a tack." He tosses in another pair of sweeteners to raise. "Arendelle's a good doc, but let's put it this way: Between the two of them, if I had to serve with someone or go drinking with someone, it'd be Swan. I've seen the way she looks after Arendelle. If she has a mind to take care of you, you're covered. She'll always have your six."

Killian notes that Scarlet now seems overly focused on studying the cards in his hand. He looks from the soldier back to Emma, who is appearing adorably sheepish as Elsa impulsively hugs her. "Sounds like a good person to have in your corner," he agrees.

They play for a couple hours, with Killian and Scarlet ultimately calling it a draw, the donuts polished off long ago.

"Excellent game, mate," Killian says, holding out his hand tentatively. There's a moment's hesitation, but he is gratified when Scarlet ultimately shakes his hand this time.

"Not bad, Jones," he says.

Killian nods, recognizing the significance of a compliment like this from someone like Scarlet, and he stands to help clean up. Davis packs up the cards, Rothschild collects the sweeteners in his lap and rolls over to the waiting area coffee machine to dump them back into their container, and Killian hauls the end table back into the corner. In a minute, the men have the room as they found it.

Killian rubs the back of his head with his stump as he digs into his pocket for his wallet. "I don't know when you blokes are going to be discharged, but if you need anything, give me a call." He pulls some business cards out and hands them around.

"Thanks for coming by again," Stephens tells him as they all proceed back to the ward in a strange little caravan, Scarlet bringing up the rear with Killian pushing his IV pole beside him.

"Sure thing, mate."

The others wish him happy holidays as they break off, heading back to their respective rooms to get ready for the dinner trays that are just starting to come around, the savory smell of nondescript meat and mixed vegetables hanging in the air. Killian sees Scarlet into his room. It's been tidied in his absence, the trash emptied and the sheets changed, and Marco has left the floor shining, the scent of the wax largely dissipated by now.

Killian pauses, looking around, unsure. "Shall I call your nurse?"

Scarlet waves him off. "It's fine." He groans with effort, but he manages to push himself out of his chair, balancing on his remaining leg and pivoting to sit at the side of his bed with a few labored hops. He watches as Killian rolls the IV pole around, tucking it as unobtrusively next to the head of the bed as he can, and then pushes the wheelchair out of the way.

Killian looks around to make sure everything is in order before awkwardly running his hand through his hair. "It was nice to meet you, mate. Best of luck with your recovery." He lifts his hand in a half-wave and heads for the door.

"Jones."

He turns, hand on the door handle.

"Thanks for the donuts."

Killian blinks, then gives the other man a bow of his head and a small, somber smile as he ducks out.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

"Emma."

Emma holds up a finger to Ruby as she finishes dictating the last few sentences of a hospital admission note on a new patient and presses a number on the desk phone keypad to save it to the system. She replaces the handset in the cradle and looks up. "What's up?"

"He's leaving." Ruby tilts her head in the direction of the elevators.

Emma's eyes widen. "Oh. Thanks." She snatches up her cell phones and jumps up, trying not to look overeager as she heads down the hall at something between her usual gait and her best full-tilt power walk. Killian is ahead of her, but thankfully the elevator takes its time arriving, and she manages to catch up to him just as the doors are opening. His coat is draped over his arm, the sleeves of his black button-up casually rolled to the elbow, and she tries not to notice the nice definition in his forearms or the way his ass looks in his dark jeans. She fails miserably.

He turns at the sound of her footsteps and gives her a small smile. "Swan."

"Hi." She does her best not to sound breathless. "Mind if I ride down with you?"

He holds the elevator door back with his left arm and gestures with his right. "After you."

The elevator is blissfully empty save for the two of them. She turns to him as the doors shut and they start to descend. "I don't know how you did it."

He ducks his head with a small chuckle. "I don't know if I did anything, lass. Though I am fairly sure those donuts have magical properties."

She's not having any of his modesty. "You got him to spend time out of his room," she says firmly, refusing to look away until he lifts his eyes to hers. _God, his eyes are so blue_. "Trust me, this is a big mark in the win column." Her ecstatic expression fades as she studies his face. He's smiling softly, but something about him strikes her as tired. Maybe it's his posture, a subtle slump in his shoulders, maybe it's the fact that those eyes don't seem as lit from within as she's seen them before. Her eyebrows form a slight peak toward her forehead. "Killian? Is everything okay?" She licks her lips nervously.

He seems momentarily surprised at her question, and he quickly puts on a dashing smile and nods. "Of course, Swan."

Emma raises an eyebrow but tries to look comforted, redirecting her attention to the floor numbers above the elevator door as they glow in reverse succession. Something about being here has taken a toll on him. As they reach the ground floor and walk out into the lobby, it finally strikes her that hospitals are probably full of bad memories for him. Lord, she's an idiot. "Is it hard for you?" she asks, her expression filled with concern, "To come back to the hospital and have to think about… about what happened?"

Again, he appears slightly taken aback at her question, and now she's pretty sure her suspicions are correct. "It is, isn't it? Oh, Killian, I'm sorry." She silently chastises herself and shakes her head apologetically as the words start to tumble out. "I didn't think. I shouldn't have asked you to-"

"Swan. Emma!"

She freezes as he rolls his eyes and reaches out, his hand and stump applying gentle pressure to her shoulders. Emma clamps her lips shut, staring into his face with wide eyes and noting the sadness underlying his exasperated expression.

He sighs. "Emma, I said I was happy to help, and I meant it. I'm alright."

She peers at him skeptically, taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the shivers that are running up her spine from his hold on her. "Really?"

"Really." He nods reassuringly, smiling ruefully this time. Something in his expression looks a little touched, and he gives her a small squeeze before dropping his arms away, a tiny flush in his cheeks.

She's pretty sure he's still not being entirely truthful with her, but she decides not to push. Much to her chagrin, she has to admit that she barely knows him, much less what kind of demons he keeps at bay, and she doesn't want to tramp all over his pride either. "Okay. Well," she folds her arms around herself a little self-consciously, "I really can't thank you enough." She clears her throat. "If you think of something I can do for you, you know where to find me."

He chuckles. "That I do." He scratches behind his ear. "It was lovely seeing you again, Emma."

She can feel her cheeks grow warm at the intensity of his gaze and the way her name sounds on his lips over and over. _Ugh, down girl._ "Likewise, Killian." The realization that he's leaving colors her with melancholy. "Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime."

Killian nods, his sad little smile re-emerging as he turns and takes his leave.

She feels forlorn watching him go, like he's a wonderful story that she'll never get the chance to read. She can feel her back slump a little as she again takes a deep breath in and blows it out slowly through pursed lips, trying to clear her head. Why would she ever for a minute entertain what Ruby said about Killian being interested in her? She had needed him, not the other way around. He was just a nice guy doing a good deed. Emma forces herself to turn about-face and go back to the elevators. She needs to get back to work. That, at least, is one fact about her life she knows with certainty.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few weeks are busy as Killian administers end-of-semester exams for his classes and grades final projects. He is always ambivalent about this time of year as it means a lot more work than usual for him but is a prelude to the two-and-a-half-week winter vacation. This year the workload is a welcome distraction, something to draw his attention away from his thoughts of Emma Swan.

She caught him off guard during their last encounter when she picked up on the emotional toll of his hospital visits. He's had a lot of practice disguising his feelings over his lifetime, and only a handful of people, all of whom he's known for years, are able to deduce his emotions with such accuracy, and yet she did it with seemingly little effort. That of itself is remarkable, but the concern she showed for his emotions also touched him deeply. He's reminded himself countless times since then that caring about the well-being of others is second nature for her – it is, after all, a large part of what she does for a living – and that he cannot infer that he is unique in any way. Still, the worry in her eyes when he gripped her shoulders to calm her down - the idea that the state of his heart genuinely mattered to this woman – made him feel exceptionally special.

He's had a couple of dreams about her. He hasn't been able to recall any of the details upon waking each time, but the image of her beautiful face is always clear in his mind as sits up in bed and runs his palm from his forehead to his chin. It's a mixed blessing really, not to remember the imagery of her generated by his subconscious – he can't relive his fantasy encounters with her, but neither can he dwell on them. The fact that he has had any dreams about her at all gives him disquiet. He hasn't had recurring dreams about anyone else except for his mother, his brother, and his first love, Milah, but they were all pivotal people whose lives and deaths have impacted him dramatically. Emma Swan is just an acquaintance, a friend at best. Why does his brain seem to think she deserves the privilege of haunting him?

"Good morning, Sir." Smee greets him as Killian pushes open the door to his department offices and passes by the secretary's desk, which is festooned with a string of glowing chunky Christmas bulbs. Smee has always been in love with this holiday; carols are always playing softly from a iPod dock on his desk from Thanksgiving to New Years', and he wears a red Santa hat the last three weeks of December without fail. He'd probably wear the full Santa suit too, if he wasn't required to wear his uniform to work.

Killian gives him a congenial nod as he goes.

"Oh, Sir?"

He pauses and turns. "Yes?"

"A delivery came for you this morning. I put it on your desk."

Killian blinks, trying to recall if he was expecting anything; nothing comes to mind. "Thanks."

The box he finds is about 2 feet square, a foot high, and nondescript brown cardboard, but he stops in his tracks when he locates the mailing label. It's from Emma. The return address lists her name and an apartment in Chevy Chase, and both it and his address at the Academy are written in thin black Sharpie in a slightly messy hand.

His breathing is shallow as he slices the box open, unsure of what he hopes to find. A gray gift box tied with a wide red ribbon is nestled inside beneath layers of crumpled brown packing paper. He's actually holding his breath by the time he pulls it out and releases the ribbon with a tug. His lips part and warmth floods his chest as he lifts the lid.

The box is packed neatly with a couple packs of gourmet coffee grounds and several disposable plastic food containers full of cookies that look homemade. A slip of paper sits on top, emblazoned with a note in the same scrawl as on the box:

 _Killian,_

 _I owed you for more than coffee. These cookies don't have magical properties, but I hope you enjoy them anyway. Have a Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _Emma_

 _PS – All your poker buddies made it home for the holidays._

He reads the note half a dozen times before he can bring himself to put it down and examine the cookie boxes. Prying up the lid of one, the delicious aroma of chocolate chip hits his nose, and his mouth starts to water. It turns out that she's included both chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin in her gift pack, and the gourmet coffee blends are two varieties of French roast, his favorite. His shakes his head with wonder as he realizes that she must have been paying close attention the first time they met. Upon further inspection, he also finds a prepackaged bag of high-quality hot cocoa mix with a little sticky note affixed to it on which she's scribbled: _Try with cinnamon!_

He reaches for his phone, popping a cookie in his mouth absently. It's exquisitely soft, chewy, and chocolaty, and he almost moans with his first bite. _Good heavens, this woman knows her way around a cookie._ He brushes the crumbs from his fingers off on his pants and opens his top desk drawer, hunting out the sticky note he tucked away in one corner after the last time he saw her. It takes a moment for him to gather the courage to enter the number into his phone, and he begins to contemplate what to say to her. At last he settles on a text which he is painfully slow to compose:

 _Thank you for the grand gift. Pretty sure these cookies DO have magical properties. They're bloody brilliant. -K_

He re-reads his three sentences over and over, thumb hovering over the "send" button, before steeling his nerves and tapping the screen. It swishes away into the ether, and his stomach flops as he prays his life isn't about to get more complicated because of cookies and a "thank you" text.

Come lunchtime, she texts him back:

 _Sorry, was in surgery! Glad you like them. Guess everything's magical with enough butter and sugar. It was the least I could do. You really made a difference._

After a minute, another text appears:

 _Hope you have happy holidays, Killian._

He smiles softly, yet again finding himself overwhelmed with a sense of deep-seated contentment and… He furrows his brow as he considers how to describe it. Happiness? Peace? Optimism? It's not an emotion he can recall feeling much in years, and yet he's losing track of the number of times she's already made him feel this way in less than half a dozen encounters.

He texts back:

 _And you, Emma._

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

"Incoming!"

Various voices call approval, and Emma leans out of the way as Ruby maneuvers a tray of beverages onto their long table in the back of The Rabbit Hole. The pub is half a mile from the hospital and a favorite hive for its employees off-the-clock. She scans the tray for her Rum and Coke, spots the glass with its lime wedge garnish, and claims it happily.

Across from her, Elsa stirs her Tom Collins with the straw and laughs as Ruby's girlfriend, Dorothy, an OR nurse, steals Ruby's drink and helps herself to a healthy sip before passing it to its owner. Ruby tries to look annoyed, but ends up simply wrinkling her nose and shooting Dorothy a look that promises reprisal later.

Emma glances to her left where Mary Margaret, one of her oldest college friends, a school teacher, is snuggling up to David, Emma's best friend from medical school and another Navy doctor who's a few years older and doing his cardiology fellowship. After introducing them to one another three years ago, Emma had a front row seat to the fairytale romance that led to them tying the knot this past summer. Most people would write off their current lovey-doveyness as a honeymoon period, but Emma sips her drink and watches them, thinking that she's fairly sure this is just how Mary Margaret and David are (and will always be). She hides her smile behind the rim of her glass. Two more deserving people in the world there aren't.

"Emma?"

Emma turns her attention to Elsa.

"Did you ever find out if Killian got that package?"

Emma blushes as the chatter drops in volume and eyes turn to her. _Gee, thanks Elsa._ "Uh, yeah, he did," she answers in a nonchalant tone she hopes will not invite follow-up questions.

"Killian? Killian Jones?" Ruby asks with a knowing grin. "You sent him a package?"

 _Ugh. Here we go._ Emma nods, shrugging. "Yeah, you know, just a little something to say thanks, seeing as how what he did with our guy was a near miracle."

"What guy?" David asks, reaching forward to grab a french fry off an appetizer plate.

Emma turns her head to him. "You remember that belligerent patient I told you about who yelled and swore at her?" she asks, pointing at Elsa.

His eyes light up with recognition. "Sure."

"Emma had her friend Killian spend some time with him," Ruby says, eyes glinting gleefully. "Got him to socialize with other patients, helped settle him down. I mean, he didn't become super pleasant or anything, but he was a lot more cooperative after that."

"He even apologized to me the day after Killian was there," Elsa adds. "He actually seemed really sorry."

Mary Margaret sets her gin and tonic down and cozies up to Emma. "And who's Killian?" she asks, drawing out his name playfully.

Emma's never had a real mother to grill her about a boy, but Mary Margaret's intense, long-standing obsession with her (largely non-existent) love life has always struck her as a fair substitute for the experience. She rolls her eyes. "He's just a guy I met at the hospital. He lost his hand, and he visits with the new amputees sometimes. End of story."

"Oh whatever," Ruby snorts, tapping away at her phone. She starts reading aloud. "Rear Admiral Killian Jones, on permanent exchange from the British Royal Navy; Associate Professor in the Naval Architecture and Ocean Engineering Department at the US Naval Academy; PhD from King's College, London." She looks innocently at Emma, who is gaping at her. "What? I can Google him, same as you." She looks at Mary Margaret and David slyly. "Also, he looks like a runway model."

Mary Margaret whirls around in her seat as though she's spring-loaded at the waist and smacks Emma's arm. "You met a handsome British officer with a PhD and you didn't think to mention it?" she scolds.

"Okay, okay, everyone just calm the hell down." Emma props her elbows on the table and braces her forehead on the heels of her hands for a second. "He's just a friend. I don't know if you can even call it that. We've only spoken a few times. He's a nice guy, and he did me a favor. We are not a thing."

"Well why not?" Mary Margaret asks. "Is he taken?"

"Not based on the way he looks at Emma."

"Ruby…" Emma tosses her head back and whines.

Ruby sips her Bloody Mary and shifts in her seat, shaking her head emphatically. "Okay, seriously, Emma. You did not see the way he was looking at you. It was like you're all he wants for Christmas."

Emma gives a harassed sigh and pulls out her phone. "Okay. Look. The guy has my number, my address, _and_ he knows where I work. If he wanted to make a move, he could have, but he hasn't, and I'm not going to chase after him like a puppy dog."

"You gave him your number and your home address?" David asks, surprised. He knows how private Emma prefers to be.

"Well, I called his office with my cell phone when I asked him to help us," Emma admits sheepishly. "He must have seen it, because he texted me the other day to say thank you."

"Thank you for the cookies," Elsa clarifies.

Mary Margaret's eyes widen as she grows even more excited. "You made him cookies?"

Emma decides she needs booze to continue this torturous conversation, and she downs a significant portion of her drink. "Yes, Mary Margaret," she says, "The man did me a big favor, and I owed him one, so I sent him a little care package."

"And you put your home address on the box?" Ruby says, looking impressed. She turns to Dorothy, almost nose-to-nose, with a grin, "I told you she was smart."

"The post office likes a return address," Emma says weakly. "It's not like I'm expecting him to show up outside my apartment with a boombox."

Mary Margaret swipes Emma's phone off the table and unlocks it with the pass-code she knows as well as her own. "So what did the text say?"

"Hey!" Emma reaches, but Mary Margaret lightly slaps her hand away, eyes intent on the screen. Looking around at her other friends for back-up, knowing she'll find none, Emma leans back in her seat and drains the rest of her drink with a grumble.

Mary Margaret reads the texts aloud to the table as the others listen raptly. She sighs. "Oh, he sounds so British!" She puts a hand on Emma's shoulder. "Did you use my recipes?"

Emma reaches to pull their group's giant plate of nachos toward her as if it's hers alone, having given up this fight and deciding to seek solace in junk food. "I don't _know_ any other cookie recipes," she points out.

"Oh, he likes my cookies!" Mary Margaret tells David, looking delighted.

David nods with a patient smile. "Yes, Dear." He fixes Emma with a sympathetic expression as he watches her nosh on tortilla chips and liquid cheese. "Look, Emma, maybe he's just shy or something. Maybe he just got out of a relationship and doesn't want to rebound. Who knows? Give him time." He looks at Mary Margaret with adoration. "If it's meant to be, you'll find each other." He grins as she kisses his cheek and the rest of the table gives a collective "aw." Then he shrugs. "And when you do, I'll be there to give him hell for making you wait."

Emma chuckles. "Thanks, Dad."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Killian spends Christmas Eve alone in his apartment, the way he has for the last four years. Belle always invites him to spend time at the bar on Christmas Eve, at least until she closes up early, but he's yet to take her up on it, preferring a quiet night tucked into his favorite club chair with a book and a glass of rum, trying to ignore the fact that people everywhere are gathering with friends and family. Dr. Hopper has pointed out that doing this just perpetuates his isolation, but the memories of the people Killian wishes he could be with at Christmas have always made other company feel hollow to him.

He looks up from the biography in his lap and stares distantly into the flames that snap and pop in his small gas fireplace. There's only one person alive that he wishes he could be with right now, but that's not possible for several reasons. He pulls out his phone and brings up the calendar, silently counting out Emma's call days again, though he already knows that she's on-call overnight tonight. It saddens him to think that she can't spend Christmas the way she probably wants to, but selfishly, it makes him feel better to know that there was no point in asking if she had plans. A small voice nags him that he doesn't have the same excuse for New Year's Eve, but Killian quickly reminds himself that if he's determined to maintain a platonic relationship with Emma, the last place he should be is next to her at midnight on New Year's Eve.

He studies the phone in his hand and brings up his texting app. The device vibrates in his hand with haptic feedback as his thumb taps out the words:

 _Happy Christmas, Emma Swan_.

The second hand on his mantel clock ticks by slowly as he gazes at the screen with sad eyes. Finally, he backspaces the whole message and puts the phone away. Killian slams his book shut and pushes himself out of the chair. He needs more rum.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Emma's head bobs back and forth, eyes peeled for the proper signage to direct her to the sports complexes as she guides her vintage yellow Beetle along the roads on the grounds of the US Naval Academy. She chews on her lip as she drives, looking around at the various campus buildings. She's never actually been here before, having attended college and medical school at Columbia and only being required, as a physician, to do five weeks of officer's training at the base in Rhode Island, rather than here. The grounds are grand and well-maintained. Impressive white, cream, and gray stone monolithic buildings surround her, accented with green copper-patina highlights. Melting snow is everywhere, but she can imagine how lovely the various yards and quads must look when covered in green grass during the warmer months. _So this is where Killian works_. She makes a face and scolds herself for still thinking so readily of him despite not having heard from him since their short text exchange the week before Christmas, which was three weeks ago.

She huffs and tries to focus on where she's going. Now that it's January, she's on an outpatient sports medicine rotation, which is a welcome change of pace from the intense work schedule she had in December. It means mostly 8-to-5 clinic days and no weekends and and a lot more time to work on the research project she's spent many months setting up under Major Mills' guidance. She wants to study the effects of repetitive movement on certain stress injuries, and a sports team is a good way to do that. How convenient that the Navy happens to have quite of few of those here at the Academy, and Major Mills has pulled some strings to get her an in with the Division I men's basketball team.

She pulls the car up to a wide wrought-iron security gate and rolls down the window for the approaching guard. They swap salutes as he greets her.

"Afternoon, Ma'am."

"Hi. Captain Emma Swan," she says, handing over her credentials, including her temporary Department of Defense ID. "I'm with the Orthopedics Department at Walter Reed. I'm here to work with the basketball team on a research project."

The lieutenant takes a moment to check her information before waving to his partner to open the gate for her. "Yes, Captain, we've got you on the list. Everything looks good." He points ahead. "You'll need to go to the visitor center to pick up your photo ID before going to practice. Parking's right there. Halsey Field House is the building adjoining; the team'll be there." He grins at her. "Nice car."

"Thanks. She's my baby," Emma says fondly as she puts the Bug back into drive, giving him a little wave as she pulls through.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

The rhythmic thuds of his trainers against the pavement mingle with the sound of OneRepublic's latest album in his earbuds as Killian jogs his usual path around the Academy's campus, the waterfront on his left. There are other places to run here - namely, the track at Ingram Field - but he finds it calming and much more satisfying to run a circuit around the campus, the whole second half of which is seaside, rather than in mind-numbing laps around the boring orange track.

The air is cold but mild here, much less frigid than it tends to be farther inland, and even in winter he generally enjoys running outdoors when conditions permit. He's always been drawn to the ocean, its vastness and beauty inspiring a sense of peace in him regardless of whether the waves are placid or tempestuous. There's something steadying about watching the horizon, about being near something so much larger than himself and his worries and his sadness, and about being reminded that something new and unknown may lie just beyond.

He's done with teaching for the day, and his plan is to finish his run, grab a quick shower at the field house, and then head home – just his average Friday. He slows his pace as he approaches Halsey, starting his cool down, when his eyes set upon a lemon yellow vintage Beetle in the field house parking lot. He smiles a little at the juxtaposition of the cheerful, playful-looking little car with the majestic, hallowed architecture that surrounds them and the much more utilitarian vehicles that mostly dot the campus. There's something else curious about the Bug though - he's seen one just like it somewhere else recently. He frowns, trying to think.

His expression becomes stunned surprise when the vehicle's owner emerges from the visitor center and returns to it. _Bloody hell_. The black uniform pea coat, black beanie, and service khakis are unfamiliar on her, but he has no difficulty recognizing the subtle sway of her walk or Emma's face as she opens the door of her car. She ducks down and begins rummaging around in her back seat, not appearing to have seen him. His pace shudders to a halt, his pulse revving up when it should be slowing down. _What is she doing here? Should he say hello? Wait, what kind of question is that?_ He sighs. Of course he should say hello. _She's a friend, you git_ , he reminds himself. Just because he likes her too much doesn't mean he gets to be rude and ignore her. And he has to admit he's curious as to what brings her here to Annapolis.

He brushes his thumb along his bottom lip, taking a second to get up his nerve, and breaks back into a slow jog toward her. As he approaches, he calls, "Swan?"

The beanie stops moving at the sound of his voice, then her head pops up to peek at him over the top of her car. "Killian?" Her green eyes are wide, equally surprised to see him.

He trots up, hoping he doesn't look or smell too sweaty after his run. They stare at each other for a moment before he remembers himself and grins nervously. "Hello."

"Hi."

He's enchanted by her shy little smile and the slightly pink tinge developing on her cheeks and at the tip of her nose from the cold air. Killian struggles to find his tongue. "What brings you so far from the hospital, love?"

She chuckles and gestures at the back seat of her car. "I, uh, I'm working on a research project. The basketball team is helping me study stress injuries related to repetitive movement."

He blinks and cocks his head, his brow wrinkling and an intrigued smile illuminating his face. How is it that _everything_ he learns about Emma Swan manages to fascinate him? "Really?"

"Yeah." She holds her head a little higher, her shoulders relaxing, and turns back to her car to pull out a folded tripod, leaning it against her rear wheel before pulling out a second and a third. "The guys are letting me film a couple of their practices while they wear anatomic markers which will help me analyze their movements."

"That sounds rather brilliant," he says truthfully. Killian eyes the tripods and the pair of over-sized file boxes she still has in the back of her car. "Can I help you carry something?"

Her eyebrows lift in a grateful expression that makes him feel like he would be happy to carry many somethings (even ridiculous, heavy somethings) for her if she asked. "Would you? That would be amazing. I'm running a little behind getting set up, and I don't want to delay the guys from starting practice." She points to the tripods. "Can you grab those please? I'll get these." She stacks one file box atop the other and hauls them out of the car carefully as Killian easily hoists all three tripods up under his left arm and helps her shut her car door.

They walk side-by-side into the field house, navigating the wide, echoing halls that lead back toward the basketball court.

"I hope I'm not keeping you from something," she starts.

"Uh, no," he admits with an encouraging smile. "I just finished a run. I was just about to have a shower and head home."

"Did you have a nice Christmas?" she asks.

"Um, yeah." His forehead crinkles a little as he tries to figure out how not to reveal that he spent it alone drinking too much rum and drowning in maudlin thoughts about her. "It was quiet." He clears his throat. "You?" He opens the door to the gymnasium for them.

She chuffs. "I was at work, what else? Nothing like eating cafeteria turkey and mashed potatoes out of a Styrofoam box between surgeries." She rolls her eyes at him fetchingly as they stride across the polished wood floor to the benches she points at with her elbow. "Although I did get to play Santa and give a guy a shiny new metal rod in his ankle."

Killian laughs. "Well, many men do like getting hardware," he says, "I find it's much more useful than a tie or an ugly jumper." His heart leaps as the corners of her eyes crinkle with amusement. God, he's really missed talking to her.

They reach the benches, and she sets her boxes down and motions for him to leave her tripods there too. He watches as she begins to unpack three specialty video cameras in protective cases – infrared, she explains – and plastic cases filled with 1-inch spherical gray markers that light up on infrared and will be attached to the players to mark major joints and bony landmarks so their positions are more visible on video. She's enthusiastic as she talks about her project, chattering on as they set up her tripods and cameras and unpack study participation consent forms in a way that reminds him how bloody brilliant she is. It's delightful to glimpse her intellect like this, but he also takes genuine interest in her project, realizing as she talks that she thinks about the human skeleton the way he thinks about the structure of ships and submarines.

The cadets start arriving not long after, outfitted in practice jerseys and eyeing Killian and Emma curiously as they begin warming up and and taking practice shots. One comes over, a raven-haired lad with light blue eyes that Killian easily recognizes from one of his upper-level engineering courses. "Admiral Jones?"

"Midshipman." Killian acknowledges him cordially. He gestures. "Swan, this is Midshipman Eric Prince. Prince, Captain Emma Swan."

The young man man nods politely, hand out. "Ma'am."

Emma flashes him a smile as they shake. "Hi."

"Coach mentioned a surgeon was coming for a research project today. We had orders to be here a little early. That you?" he asks.

"That's me," she confirms.

Killian turns to her. "Prince is one of my engineering students."

Understanding registers on her face. "Ah." She looks back at Prince. "Is he tough?" she asks teasingly.

Prince bobs his head without hesitation. "Tough but fair, Ma'am. The best."

"Suck-up," Killian jokes as they grin at one another.

"And you, Sir?" The cadet surveys Killian's black track pants and Navy logo Under Armour shirt. "What brings you here?"

Killian tries not to blush as his student looks between himself and Emma, clearly making some assumptions. "The Captain and I are friends who just ran into each other. I'm only here to lift and carry and pester her with my curiosity."

Prince chuckles. "Yes, Sir."

One of coaches arrives and bellows at the players to gather, and Prince gives them a hasty bow of his head. "Sir. Ma'am." He excuses himself to join the herd.

Killian turns to Emma feeling a little embarrassed. "I suppose that's my cue to leave you to it, Swan." He really wants to stay, to spend time with her and watch her work, but he's a third wheel here, and he can't just follow her around for the whole three-hour practice without giving her and everyone else an obvious clue as to how he feels about her. He fears he may have crossed the line as it is. He scratches the back of his head. "You'll have to let me know how it goes."

She nods, looking a little disappointed. "Sure. Well," she gives him a warm smile that tempts him to stay all the more, "Thank you so much for your help… again." She laughs sheepishly, folding her arms and running one hand over her bicep as though cold. "If you keep this up, I may have to send you more cookies."

"I would not object to that," he tells her with all seriousness. "Those were the best bloody things I've eaten in a long time."

Emma blushes beautifully. _How can she be so perfect?_ "They're my friend's recipes. She was really happy that you liked them."

She's told her friend about him. He realizes he's grinning broadly, heart rate picking up again. "Well, my compliments to you and your friend, then." He looks at her, tracing the delicate lines of her face, not wanting to bid her farewell again so soon, but there's nothing for it. He shouldn't stay. He can't stay. He rubs the back of his neck with his stump and clears his throat, grabbing the windbreaker he shed when they came in and dipping his head to her. "Bye Emma."

She reaches for the pile of study consent forms and a handful of pens and hugs them to her chest, giving him a soft smile. "Bye Killian."

He tries his best to walk out of the gym at a casual pace when he really wants to run like the coward he is. Once through the doors and out of sight, he jogs to the men's locker room and hastily preps for a shower. He is glad that no one else is around at the moment to see him slam his locker door open and then shut with the self-loathing that simmers in his chest.

He steps under the shower head of the first available stall before the water is fully heated, resting his forearms against the tile wall and leaning his face on them as the lukewarm water sluices over his skin. The humid air fills his lungs as he breathes heavily. Lord help him, he wants so much to be with her. He's so happy when he's with her. And he wonders if she wouldn't be receptive to his advances. She might be. But she'd figure it out pretty quickly - figure out that his damage goes far beyond what she can see. He opens his eyes, water droplets falling from his lashes into his field of vision, and glares at the long puckered scar that runs along the end of his stump. She'll figure out what an emotional mess he is, how needy he is, how terrified he'll be that he'll somehow lose her. The first time he has a nightmare when she's there, he'll frighten her when he sits bolt upright shouting after a ghost. The first time phantom pain, the horrific burning sensation he feels in the hand he lost, sours his mood, she'll wonder what she did wrong. Swan is a brilliant woman who may understand in theory what he goes through, but to live it with him? She'll either stay and suffer with him, a fate she doesn't deserve, or she'll leave after helping him fall completely in love with her, a fate he can't survive.

He stands up, closing his eyes, hand pushing his hair backward over the top of his head, the water hitting his face full on. He prays again. Lord help him.


	5. Chapter 5

Emma sits at the sidelines staring absently at the players as they run basketball drills up and down the court. It was relatively straightforward to explain to the team what she needed for her research, get consent forms signed, outfit the cadets one-by-one with anatomic markers, and set cameras rolling. The whole process took about half an hour, and the work kept her mind off Killian's departure. Now, however, she has nothing to do but sit and bide the hours until practice is over, and her emotions bubble to the surface, no longer held at bay by distractions.

 _Of course he left._ Did she really think he was just going to spontaneously sacrifice his Friday afternoon to sit here with her? Clearly, he didn't see a reason to stay. And the disappointment she feels at this is a little suffocating.

She abruptly stands, grabbing her coat. She tells the coach she's just stepping out for a bit and passes him her number in case there are issues with the equipment. Then she pushes her way through the heavy doors out of the gymnasium. She needs some air. She needs to be somewhere where people aren't watching her.

It's a little before four in the afternoon, and the sun is still going to be up for another hour. She buttons her coat and tugs on her beanie as she steps outside, the cool air a welcome balm to her flushed skin. She sucks in a lungful until she can't anymore, blowing it out slowly, her heart hammering in her chest as she glances around. She heads toward the water. There's a bench on a little grassy area sandwiched between the visitor center and the ocean, and she's grateful she's the only one there as she sits, hands shoved deep into her pockets, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

She looks out over the water, brow furrowed, a cold breeze biting her cheeks. The waves lap at the shore softly, the waters a deep, dark blue at this time of day. It's beautiful. She grew up in Minnesota surrounded by lakes, but as a child, she'd never been lucky enough to see the seemingly infinite expanse of the ocean. None of the foster families she'd ever landed with had the time or money to travel, but when she'd been awarded a hard-earned college scholarship to Columbia and arrived in New York, she'd discovered the Atlantic and fallen in love. And when she'd decided to join the military as a means to afford medical school, she hadn't hesitated to pick the navy, not just because people told her the lifestyle would be a better fit for her, but also because it would keep her near the sea.

Emma savors the salty air. She shouldn't be so upset, she tells herself rationally. He's just a guy. Sure, he's outrageously good-looking and kind and generous and smart, but in the end, he's one man, and apparently he's not the man for her, since he doesn't seem to be interested in that possibility. She doesn't know his back-story. She shouldn't judge. She shouldn't resent him for not wanting what she wants, for not wanting _her_. She's a big girl. So why can't she just get over it and move on?

It's not like she's new to feeling unwanted. She spent her whole childhood unwanted, shuttled in and out of houses that never felt like homes, doing her best to play the good kid only to find out that no one found her performance convincing enough to want to claim her as their own permanently.

It'd happened again to her in medical school. She'd met Neal Cassidy, a classmate, a scruffy, disillusioned charmer who'd convinced her they were cut from the same cloth, that it was them against the world. They'd been inseparable those first two years, which pretty much consisted of endless hours of lectures and studying and a fair amount of screwing in between. Emma feels her jaw tense as she remembers those days. She'd been sure that they would be together forever, that she'd finally found the home she had always wanted in Neal. She'd been extremely successful in her classes, consistently earning honors, and, with a lot of coaching, she'd seen to it that he'd also done well. And then third year had rolled around, and they'd gone off on their individual clinical rotation schedules, and it had become obvious after about three months that if he couldn't use her to help him study or get laid, Neal didn't think she was worth keeping around either. He'd moved on without so much as a look back, leaving her behind to salvage what was left of her heart, emotionally homeless once again.

Emma studies the horizon, brushing a strand of hair that's escaped her twisted bun out of her face. She has to stop this. She has to stop wallowing in both her past and her present, has to stop letting her old scars make her more prone to new ones. That isn't how scars are supposed to work. Scars are supposed to be protective – tissue that's tougher and thicker than what was there before, tissue that doesn't have nerve endings and can't feel the same pain.

She's wasted enough of her life wishing for things that she can't have. When Neal broke her heart, she became distracted and disorganized, and her performance as a medical student had suffered. That was actually when she had befriended David, who'd been an intern on her internal medicine rotation. During the busiest year of his residency training, he'd taken her under his wing and patiently helped her rebuild her confidence and her focus. Emma has promised herself she'll never fall apart like that again over anything, especially over a guy. She supposes that should go double for a guy she's never actually been in a relationship with. Killian Jones may seem like the most incredible man she's met, well, _ever_ , but if he's not interested, then she can't afford to be either.

It's as simple as that.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

"So how have you been?" Dr. Hopper closes his office door and circles around to the cream Mid-Century-style chair opposite Killian. He removes his tweed suit coat and sets it aside as he sits. Afternoon sun beats at the drawn window shades, casting a pale yellow hue over everything in the room.

"Well enough," Killian answers, shifting from side to side in his seat, trying to get comfortable, studying the muted brown office carpet.

"Uh-huh. Care to try again?"

He looks up at his psychiatrist, trying to look offended. "Excuse me?"

Hopper smiles gently, pushing his orange horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and leans forward, rubbing his open palms together thoughtfully. "I've known you for three years, Killian. I can tell when something's up. You're fidgeting more than usual, and you haven't made eye contact with me since the second you walked in here."

Killian meets his gaze, face guilty. "Sorry."

Dr. Hopper nods his cheerful acceptance of the apology and sits straighter. "So what's going on? What'd you do for the holidays?"

Killian shoots him a dry glare, though there's no heat behind it.

"Okay, you spent them alone again. Fine." Hopper tries a different tack. "How about you just cut to the chase and tell me what it is that's eating you so I don't end up billing for an hour's worth of awkward silence?"

Killian grumbles and hangs his head momentarily. He knows from experience that Hopper will make good on the threat. The man is unfailingly nice but has the tenacity of a bull dog. He gives a long-suffering sigh. "There's a woman."

The doctor tips his head back, mouth opening in understanding. "Ah." He lifts a mug of coffee off a side table and takes a sip. "And what kind of a relationship do you have with this woman…?"

"Emma."

Hopper nods encouragingly. "What kind of a relationship do you have with Emma?"

Killian sits back in his seat, arms sliding backward on the armrests. "She's a friend. I mean," he grimaces as he tries to figure out what to say, "We're friendly. We've only run into each other a few times, but I bought her coffee and then did her a favor, she sent me cookies, I helped her carry some things…" His hand moves back and forth as he speaks.

Hopper juts his lower lip out a bit, looking impressed. "You bought her coffee?"

He shrugs. "She'd had a long night. It seemed like the nice thing to do."

The other man nods in agreement, his eyes smiling in approval. "And the favor you did for her?"

"I, um…" Killian, scratches behind his ear, "She's an orthopedic surgeon at Walter Reed. She asked me to visit with one of her patients who lost his leg."

"Really." Hopper sits forward. "You're still going to the hospital?"

Killian nods. "When I have occasion."

"That's great. How did that visit with her patient go?"

"Well enough, I suppose." Killian shrugs again, a modest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "She seemed to think it was good. She sent cookies to my office to thank me."

Hopper grins. "That sounds really nice."

Killian nods. "They were pretty bloody amazing." He sighs and pushes his hair back from his face. " _She's_ pretty bloody amazing," he mutters glumly.

"Is she single?" Hopper asks. "Maybe I should ask her out."

Killian responds to his psychiatrist's impish teasing with an unamused glower and thrums his fingers on the armrest. "I suppose I don't know for sure. I think so."

Hopper lets silence fall, just the hum of the ventilation system between them. They sit that way for a long minute.

Killian shifts in his seat. "She deserves better than this," he mumbles, throwing a cold stare at his stump.

Hopper hums in contemplation. "She may not see it that way."

"She wouldn't know," he shoots back.

Hopper tilts his head, acknowledging Killian's point. "Maybe, maybe not. She's a surgeon who works with amputees. She might know more than you give her credit for." He lets that thought hang in the air for a moment. "How are the symptoms these days?"

Killian considers the question. "The cold is always hard," he says, gesturing toward the stump. They both know winter temperatures make his pain episodes more frequent and more intense.

"And the dreams?"

He frowns, realizing that having more dreams about Emma has meant having fewer nightmares. His cheeks warm. "A little better at the moment," he admits.

Hopper camouflages a small triumphant smile. He lets a few more seconds tic by. "What would your brother say about this thing with Emma?"

 _Liam._ He doesn't want to talk about Liam. Killian gives Hopper a warning look.

The man remains unfazed. "Humor me. You always speak so highly of him. Share with me who he was. What would he say about this?"

Killian frowns and slumps back in his chair, the answer coming to him immediately. He takes a deep breath. "He'd cuff me on the head and say what he always said." He eyes Hopper warily. "'A man who refuses to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.'"

Hopper nods in approval, looking thoughtful. "Fighting is not without risk," he points out at length.

"Yes, and look where it got him," Killian snaps, eyes flashing angrily. "An honorable death fighting for King and country." The memory of Liam's coffin, draped in the Union Jack as it was borne off the airplane that brought him home, burns in Killian's mind and makes his chest ache.

Hopper studies the pain on Killian's face with empathy. "You think he would have lived his life differently if he'd known what was going to happen?" he asks quietly.

Killian sits forward, leaning his forearms on his knees, and runs his hand over his face. He knows the answer to that, too. "No."

"You were also serving out in the field when he died. Did it make you want to back out?"

He grits his teeth. "No."

"So you both decided some risks are worth it," Hopper concludes simply, "And the risks are different, but now you have to decide if Emma is worth it." His expression softens. "Look, Killian," he says gently, "My job is not to tell you what to do. I'm just going to summarize what I see. You want more of Emma in your life. You're afraid she won't know what she's getting into, but it sounds like you won't tell her enough – about what you want, about what to expect – to let her make her own educated decision because you're afraid that decision will hurt you."

"Or hurt her," Killian adds grimly. "I'm not well."

"Eh," Hopper leans his head side to side, squinting at the ceiling, nose scrunched. "Take it from a psychiatrist. There aren't as many people who are 'well' as you think. For all you know, the next guy she dates may have major commitment issues or an unhealthy attachment to his mother." He gives a dry chuckle. "You're making progress. Who knows? Having her in your life may be good for your recovery." Hopper smiles kindly. "Emma's military and an orthopedic surgeon. No offense, but she's probably tough enough to handle you. She's made quite an impression on you; maybe she'll impress you again."

Killian remains silent.

Hopper shrugs. "Or not." He pauses. "Would Liam have liked her?"

Killian imagines his brother's response to Emma's smile, to her cleverness, to her kind heart. He nods with a hint of a bittersweet smile. "Yeah. He would have loved her."

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

Emma glances at her phone for messages as Major Mills wraps up their noontime lecture. There's a random "smiley-face and hug" text from Mary Margaret, but nothing else. Not that Emma was hoping for anything.

"Are there any questions?" the Major asks, advancing her PowerPoint to the list of references. When no one volunteers any, she closes the slideshow and turns off the projector. "One more thing before everyone runs out the door, then. This year the Wounded Warrior Project is having its annual benefit and awards dinner here in D.C. in March at the Kennedy Center. That's in six weeks. As caregivers for the wounded, the entire department has been invited to attend. It'll be a nice evening and a good chance to hear more about the impact of combat injuries on patients' lives. It may even be an opportunity to network. This is a major charity that attracts the attention of top brass, big donors, and some celebrities." She arches an eyebrow imperiously. "Attendance will be expected for all of you who are not assigned to work that night on-call."

One of the other residents calls out from the back. "Dress uniforms, Ma'am?"

"No, Walsh." Mills shakes her head. "We are attending first and foremost as physicians, not as representatives of the military. This will be black tie. Tuxes for the gentlemen, tasteful gowns for the ladies." She ignores the small chorus of groans from some of the men. "Emails will be sent out with the details. You're dismissed."

Emma glances at Elsa. "Do you have something to wear to this thing?"

Elsa shakes her head. "I haven't worn a fancy dress since high school prom."

"Same." Emma gives a sheepish smile. "Guess it's just as well then that Mary Margaret is going to drag us shopping the minute she gets wind of this."

Elsa chuckles.

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

"'Morning, Sir. Mail." Smee drops by Killian's office with a handful of assorted envelopes, loose paper fliers, and a couple of glossy trade journals.

"Thanks." Killian glances up from entering grades on his computer as Smee sets the pile on the desk at his elbow. He sits up a little and starts sorting through it with minimal interest. A red card-sized envelope in heavy paper peeks out from under a couple pieces of junk mail and catches his eye. _Swan?_ He pulls it out, feeling disappointed as he realizes it's not from her. It's from the Wounded Warrior Project, a charity he started donating to three years ago. It looks like an invitation. He briefly considers tossing it, but the stationery is high-quality and the silver calligraphy done with a flourish, and he decides to at least survey the contents. He runs his letter opener through it and pulls out what is indeed a formal invitation to a big benefit gala. He gives the details a once-over, and sets the whole thing aside for his recycle bin.

A notification sound alerts him to a new email, and Killian does a double-take when he sees the sender's name. It's from Will Scarlet. He clicks it open.

 _Jones,_

 _I survived the hospital and rehab. Thanks for that day you came by. First good day I'd had in a long time. Want to go for a beer? I owe you one._

 _Scarlet_

A smile graces his face as he sits back and reads it again. It was one thing for Emma to tell him he'd made a difference, but now he actually has proof, and he finds it so rewarding that his heart feels like it's grown a size. He clicks open a reply.

 _Great to hear from you, mate. Would like that. When and where? I know a place._

 _Jones_

He sits back after sending the email, still feeling energized by this turn of events. He wants to share it with someone. Well, he wants to share it with Emma. She's really the only person with whom he should anyway. This all started with her interest in helping Scarlet; she would want to know.

He pulls out his phone and sends her a message.

 _Thought you'd like to know that I heard from Will Scarlet today. Sounds like he's doing better._

Ten minutes later, she replies.

 _That's amazing! I'm really happy to hear it. I told you you'd made a difference._

He grins.

 _I can't take all the credit. It was your idea._

Her next message pops up a few minutes later.

 _I guess we made quite the team._

Killian reads this last message over and over again. There's something about getting praise like this from her that thrills him to his core, but it also makes it so much harder for him to stay away. Ten years ago he would have seen a line like this as an invitation to flirt like a scoundrel, but he reminds himself that he doesn't have that luxury now, not if he doesn't want to risk revealing his feelings. He clears his throat, feeling guilty as he texts:

 _How goes your research project?_

After a few long minutes, she comes back:

 _Great. The footage turned out really well. Lots to go through. Wish I cared more about basketball though. College practices are not exactly riveting viewing._

He smirks in spite of himself at her words and bites his lip. He never gets tired of talking to her. He can chat with her a little longer without being flirtatious, can't he?

 _What would you rather be watching?_

Her response is swift, coming in a series of successive pings.

 _PBS._

 _Cooking shows._

 _Late nights on Comedy Central._

 _That one channel that's just a log burning._

 _Literally almost anything else._

 _Except reality TV that involves ridiculous people trying to become famous._

 _And medical or science dramas that don't bear any resemblance to reality. 'Cause I just can't._

He chuckles.

 _Well, hang in there, Swan. I'm sure your project will turn out worthwhile. I've yet to see you have a bad idea._

A few more minutes go by.

 _Thanks, Killian. I guess we all need a little encouragement sometimes._

 **ˆ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜ˆ**

He and Scarlet end up meeting at The Stacks a few nights later, the soldier showing up on a crutch looking tired, but much better than he had in the hospital. The bags under his eyes are less dramatic, his complexion less sallow. He's moving around fairly well, and his countenance is still fairly serious, but the flippant smartass underneath is increasingly obvious.

He agrees to sit at Killian's usual end of the bar, his eyes taking in the old world setting and the scattered shelves of books that Belle keeps for her customers to peruse during their visits. "Interesting place."

"Killian!"

The men look up to see Belle coming over, looking pretty in a black and white print sweater and black pencil skirt. Killian holds his hand up in greeting and gives her a smile. "Hello Belle."

She beams. "It's been a little while. How are you?" She gives him a look that silently questions whether he's okay.

He responds with a grateful nod. "Alright, love." He gestures to Scarlet. "Belle, this is Will. Will, Belle." He does a double-take as he glances at Will.

The soldier's eyes are brighter than Killian has ever seen them, and his smile is genuine as he reaches his hand out to her. "Hi."

"Hello." Belle winks. "Killian doesn't bring friends by much. You must be pretty special."

Killian grins with amusement as Scarlet actually blushes.

"Nah," he says, shaking his head with surprising modesty, "I'm just a guy who owes him a drink."

The three of them chat for the next hour with Belle only popping away when summoned by other patrons. Scarlet, it turns out, is a reformed scamp who has many amusing stories of escapades from the misspent youth that preceded his decision to join the army. At one point Belle and Will try to one-up each other with increasingly outrageous tales of the alcohol-fueled hijinks that they've witnessed, which is something, considering that Belle owns a bar. Killian laughs harder than he has in quite some time, and it feels good to be sitting in this familiar place swapping funny stories instead of brooding.

When Will gets up to hit the head, Killian eyes Belle knowingly. "What do you think?"

She flushes a rosy hue and shrugs coyly. "He's really nice."

Killian sips his rum. "It's impressive how much more open he is compared to the first time we met." He meets her gaze out of the corner of his eye. "He was pretty angry about what happened. You could barely get two words out of him."

"As was the case with you, as I recall."

He concedes this with a bow of his head, setting his glass down. "He likes you," he says. "But you don't know him. Just be… careful."

Belle's smile fades as a stern frown crosses her lips. "I can take care of myself, Killian."

He winces. "I know. It's just-"

"Hey." Belle leans forward and places her hand over his as it grasps his glass. "I get it. He's up against a lot. That doesn't mean he's not worthwhile." She gives Killian a hard look that kills any additional protest he wants to make. "I know you're trying to protect me, but it's up to me, okay?"

He swallows thickly and nods as Belle stretches forward to give him a comforting peck on the cheek.

Later, when she and Will exchange phone numbers, she shoots Killian a grin. He manages to nod back at her with a feeble smile.

As they head out for the night, Killian notices Will giving her one last look over his shoulder. They walk to the parking lot around the back, Killian politely slowing his step to keep pace with Will on his crutch.

"So what's her story?" Will asks, panting, his breath visible in the chilly night air.

Killian arches an eyebrow, his eyes on the ground. "Belle?" he asks innocently.

"Did I miss another pretty girl with a killer smile in there?" Will deadpans. His face grows curious. "Did the two of you ever…" They reach his black sedan in a handicapped spot, and he leans up against it with a relieved grunt.

Killian shakes his head. "We're just good friends, mate." He clears his throat, looking him straight in the eye. "She's like my sister."

Will seems to pick up on his unspoken posturing and nods respectfully, but he doesn't appear to want to back down.

Killian grudgingly continues. He knows Belle's history, of course – knows how her husband had issues with gambling and drug addiction, and, how, after years of his roller-coastering between brief brushes with reform and relapses down into darkness, she'd finally had the courage to leave him, and he'd died from an overdose a few months later. "She's divorced, mate; a number of years ago. Beyond that, it's not my story to tell."

Will nods solemnly at this. "There's um, there's this big benefit dinner for the Wounded Warrior Project," he says, fiddling with his car keys. "It sounds like a pretty fancy party – celebrities, musical guests, good food…" He tips his head back toward the bar. "I was thinking I might ask her to go with me."

Killian sighs and rubs the back of his head, imagining Belle's reaction. "She'd probably love that," he admits.

The other man's face brightens, the excited optimism making him look a few years younger and much less dour. "Okay." He unlocks his car and opens the door, falling into the driver's seat. "Are you going? A bunch of the guys from the ward are. We see each other at physical therapy," he explains as he slides his crutch into the passenger's seat.

Killian studies him, weighing whether he'd rather spend an evening keeping an eye on Belle and Will or bury his head in the sand when it comes to what appears to be their impending relationship. He smiles magnanimously. "I wouldn't miss it."

 **•** **·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•·•**

 _Author's Note: This is the end of the preview, guys. Sorry to cut it short there, but if you like where this story is going and you're okay with MA-rated content (read: smut), I encourage you to keep going over on AO3 or on my Tumblr. Thanks so much for reading!_


End file.
